


ties that bind

by kitsunerei88



Series: Revolutionary Arc Plus Extras [15]
Category: Revolutionary Arc - kitsunerei88
Genre: Character Study, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Minor Character Death, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunerei88/pseuds/kitsunerei88
Summary: Evan Rosier, Christina Blake, and Lina Avery are knitted in round, the vibrant threads of their existence inextricably twisted and tied. Or: three stories, about Evan Rosier and Christina Blake, about Lina Avery and Evan Rosier, and about Christina Blake and Lina Avery.
Relationships: Christina Blake/Evan Rosier, Lina Avery & Christina Blake, Lina Avery & Evan Rosier
Series: Revolutionary Arc Plus Extras [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722145
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20
Collections: Rigel Black Exchange Round 2





	1. Evan Rosier and Christina Blake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beelzebubble_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beelzebubble_tea/gifts).



> beelz: as I mentioned, this actually addresses your FIAB requests, but here you go! I hope you enjoy!

Legend had it that the Rosiers were cursed.

Centuries ago, and no one had ever fixed on a date, it was said that a witch had fallen in love with the Lord Rosier. It was said that the Lord Rosier loved her in return, but that she had been no one. None of the legend was clear, exactly, on what that had meant; she might not have been noble, or perhaps she hadn’t been pureblooded. Perhaps she had been Irish, or a Scottish Clanswoman, or perhaps she hadn’t been British at all, but French or German or Russian. Or, perhaps, she hadn’t been European, or even of European descent, but one of the dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned women from Asia, or Africa, or elsewhere. No one knew why, but she had been no one and the Lord Rosier had, with regrets, cast her off.

And she, disgusted and furious with his cowardice, had cursed his entire line. From henceforth, every Lord Rosier or future Lord Rosier was destined to fall in love with the person that was most troublesome and inappropriate for him at that time—a quality that was measured according to the family values of that era. The curse would only be broken, it was said, by a Lord Rosier who had learned courage—a Lord Rosier who bucked Society and changed the world to suit his love instead of compromising.

Evan thought that was bullshit.

The legend was full of holes. First, the Rosiers hadn’t been noble for that long. They were only in the Book of Copper, which meant that they had only been ennobled after the passage of the International Statute of Secrecy, not even three centuries ago. How many centuries ago was this curse supposed to have been laid, exactly? It had to be a Lord Rosier, but the Rosier family records stretched cleanly back to the passage of the Statute, and certainly there was nothing in the records about this curse.

Second, the lack of detail about why this woman was somehow inappropriate was puzzling. Evan doubted it was simply a matter of nobility; as far as nobles went, the Rosiers were bottom of the rung, not far enough down that marrying a high-ranking commoner would be seen as inappropriate. Other families regularly married in halfbloods or even Muggleborns, so it couldn’t be that either, and Wizarding Britain was small enough that while being Irish or Scottish would be a point of note, it wouldn’t be a barrier. When one went further afield, the questions only became greater—what would an African or Asian woman be doing, in a time period that couldn’t be described, in Britain? The whole point was problematic, especially because any woman with the power to curse whole generations of a family should have been powerful enough to be considered a good match no matter her other qualities.

Finally, none of the terms of the curse made any sense. A destiny to fall in love with the person the most troublesome and inappropriate, to be measured by the family values of the day? How did the curse know that he wouldn’t meet someone more troublesome and inappropriate the next day? How could the curse tell what the family values of the day were? It was a curse, not a seer, and the breaking of the curse was even worse. Say that there was a curse—some Lords Rosier would have no doubt thrown caution to the winds and married their loves anyway, just as Father had, and yet Father was convinced the curse had not been broken. What did it mean, to learn courage? What did it mean, to change the world to suit his love instead of compromising?

As far as Evan was concerned, Father was only making excuses.

The Lord Belden Rosier was known for many things, first and foremost among them his business sense. Under his leadership, the Rosier Investment Trust had grown from a small trading concern into a major commercial interest, one that was trusted and relied upon by many, if not most, well-to-do nobles and non-nobles alike. He was respectable, and the only blemish on his record was his marriage.

The Lord Belden Rosier had not married within his ranks. He had not even married within Wizarding Britain, instead having met an Algerian witch on a business trip in France. Amel Djelloul was beautiful and talented and pureblooded, but she was not noble. She was not British. She barely spoke English, and the common language at home was French, a delicate French accented with lulling tones of Arabic. Rosier Place, set in the heart of the English countryside, carried with it the strong scent of the foreign; the dishes at Evan’s table were tajines filled with fluffy couscous, studded and rich with olives and aubergines, and lamb was more common on their table than beef. The first time Evan had eaten pork had been at Hogwarts, an experience that had promptly made him sick.

Evan had loved his mother dearly, but there were certain hard realities about his father’s marriage that had not worked in his favour. His mother had never been a proper Society wife, whether by choice or not. She had never fit in with the other noble wives; her lack of English and her homeschooled education was wrong, as wrong as the flowing robes that she wore and the fluttering burgundy of her headscarf when she went out in public and the food that Evan ate at home. She had never won an invitation to the grand noble parties that Evan aspired to, nor had she ever been able to make the connections that spelled the Rosier family’s next move on the rungs of success. She had died years ago, but Father had never moved on, and Evan knew clearly what their family’s continued success required of them.

The right marriage—in their class, usually arranged—to someone of the right background, with the right connections. With their newfound wealth, someone from the Book of Silver was a possibility, or even the Book of Gold. The Parkinsons had a daughter, and while the Parkinsons were perhaps aspirational, Evan was nothing if not ambition.

The only issue was his father. Father, unlike Evan, believed in the curse. And that meant that Father was not making the right overtures to find an appropriate marriage partner for him, because Father was convinced that Evan would meet someone completely inappropriate and troublesome and would then throw his ambitions out the window.

Pigs would sooner fly.

* * *

He was late. He was late, and he hurried through the halls of the Rosier Investment Trust—running was unseemly, but at the breakneck pace that he was walking, he might as well have been running. His long strides ate the distance between his office and his father’s, but even they couldn’t turn back time.

People already talked about him. He wasn’t the businessman his father had been, or so people said—he didn’t have the sharp acumen, the right balance of empathy and understanding with firm assertiveness. Evan thought that quite a lot of that was simply experience, but who was he to say anything at all? He knew as well as everyone that his role in the company was nepotism in action, and he would have to earn his respect.

There were three factors to earning respect in any company: likeability, punctuality, and competence. Evan was not particularly likeable, which therefore made it all the more important that he be both competent and punctual. And right now, he was late.

He shoved open the door to his father’s office, trying to straighten his robes and slow his breathing to normal at the same time. He was late, which meant he didn’t necessarily know what he was walking into, which meant that for all he knew, his father was already deep in negotiations and he needed to be presentable.

The first thing he saw in his father’s office was her.

Her hair was brown, shining with hints of red under the modern witch-lights that lit the room, cut to frame her heart-shaped face. She turned to look at him, her mouth opening slightly in surprise, and her eyes were huge, brown, with long lashes. She was pale-skinned, with a light sprinkling of freckles across a pert nose. She was not the most beautiful woman that Evan had ever seen, but there was something about her nonetheless, something that Evan could not have described if he had spent his entire life in the attempt. It was soft, and it was warm, and it felt like coming home.

It was utterly mad.

She stood, holding out one hand to him. She was tall for a woman, but her build was slender and willowy. Her robes were dark blue, cut shorter than the Wizarding British style—an American, unless he missed his guess. He took her hand and bowed over it.

“Evan Rosier,” he said, pleased at her surprised, slightly out of breath laugh as he pressed a kiss against the back of her hand. Not a fake air-kiss as was the norm, but a real one. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”

“Christina Blake,” his father introduced her, a hint of amusement underlying his brisk tone. “Miss Blake is joining our office as a specialist in new magical technologies. She comes to us with a specialisation in Alchemy from Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and two years of experience at Crane Industries in New York City. We’re very lucky to have her.”

New magical technology was not an area in which the Rosier Investment Trust had traditionally done much work. There was considerable profit to be had in investing in magical research and development, but it was difficult to find anyone who the required expertise to evaluate any proposed projects. Magical Theory, the critical underlying subject, wasn’t strongly emphasized in Wizarding Britain.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” the woman said to him, sounding slightly embarrassed as she pulled her hand away, and Evan was struck anew. The woman’s accent was British; a faded British, to be sure, but undeniably British. She was not an American, and that meant—

She was Muggleborn. She was almost certainly a Muggleborn, because only Muggleborns schooled outside of Hogwarts. They had been excluded from Hogwarts years ago; while Evan recalled meeting Muggleborns at school, they were all upper-years that had begun their schooling before the exclusion policies went into effect. Being Muggleborn was no longer an accepted status in Wizarding British society. Evan swallowed, pushing away a desire that he hadn’t even fully realized he had.

She was Muggleborn, and that meant that however stunning she was, Evan could not have a chance with her. She was not what he needed, not if he wanted to push his family higher in social prestige.

“You as well,” he returned awkwardly, stepping away from her to look at his father. “Are we expanding the magical developments division, then?”

“Yes,” Father replied, putting his hands together on his desk, his golden eyes crinkled in hidden amusement. “To be specific, you and Miss Blake are responsible for expanding our magical developments division, which will be intended to review and invest in new magical technology. Miss Blake has a firm grasp of the technical aspects of the work itself, but she has little business experience—the structure of the new division will be left to you.”

“I see,” Evan replied, and he looked at the woman again. “Well, I look forward to working with you, Miss Blake.”

“Please, call me Christie,” she said, and her face lit up with a smile so bright that Evan felt it hitting him, physical, in the stomach. He wanted that smile—he wanted it for himself, he wanted her to look at him and to smile and to know that he was the one who had put that smile there.

He wanted her. And he already knew, a foregone conclusion, that he couldn’t have her.

* * *

Feelings, Evan learned, were incredibly difficult to fight.

It was the little things. It was the way that Christie showed up at the office, tired with a paper cup of coffee in hand, her hair brushed but still hanging loose around her face. It was the moment around ten-fifteen in the morning when the caffeine finally kicked in when she reached for a hair tie and threw it all into a messy knot at the back of her head. It was the mornings when she started bringing him coffee too, because she saw that he was equally as tired as her, but that he didn’t feel like he could show it.

He hadn’t liked coffee, at first. It was harsh and bitter, and left a sour taste at the back of his mouth. But the shot of energy it gave him was like nothing else. Their first few dates—well, Evan didn’t call them dates. They weren’t dates because he wasn’t dating her. Evan Rosier was the Heir Rosier and a Book of Copper noble, and nobles didn’t date. So whatever he was doing with her, leaving every other day at three in the afternoon, shedding or Transfiguring their robes into Muggle wear to run out past the Leaky Cauldron to the shop on the corner for bad coffee wasn’t a date. They were just two coworkers, taking a break in the middle of their workdays.

She laughed during those coffee runs. Her laugh was like a jingle, bright and happy and bold, and she wrinkled her nose just a little if Evan said something that she found particularly funny. Once, he had made her laugh so hard that she snorted, and Evan hadn’t been able to keep from breaking out into laughter himself. He was sure that snorting while laughing was improper and disgusting, but something about the noise spoke to him anyway. She was laughing so hard that she couldn’t help it, and where was the embarrassment about that? What was supposed to be the embarrassment in joy?

They earned their joy. Starting a new division, almost from scratch, was hard work, and both of them put in hours upon hours of it—fifty, sixty, even seventy-hour work weeks became common. It was Evan who planned the first marketing blitz announcing the new division; it was Christie who set up the policy guidelines for proposals before they came in. The New Developments Division was intended for serious proposals only, not funding for a witch or wizard’s madcap midnight idea, and top of the list was the ability to complete a research proposal. Three months later, when applications began pouring in, it was Christie who reviewed them, and it was Evan who started frantically looking for local talent to support her.

But the work was worth it. It was worth it for every moment spent together, for every time Christie rushed into his office, her face lit up with possibilities, waving an exciting new proposal in hand. It was worth it for working lunches and midday coffee runs and evening dinner breaks—all strictly business, of course.

Christie was light, and she was laughter, and she made Evan remember that he was still young. Only twenty-one, and she was twenty. In the Muggle world, Evan often thought, things would have been so easy.

They were both adults. They were both single. They were both working, but they liked each other’s company. In the Muggle world, Evan would have asked her for a date—a proper date, in a proper restaurant, and he wouldn’t have hidden behind excuses of afternoon coffee runs to stretch his legs or working lunches or evening dinner breaks. He would have asked her out properly, and he would have made it a success, and in a year or so he would have asked her to marry him.

But they weren’t Muggles. They were a witch and a wizard, and this was a new Wizarding Britain. Lord Riddle was growing in power, and the Save Our World Party was gaining in popularity and numbers. Muggleborns had been excluded from Hogwarts in the early 1950s, and there was talk of excluding Muggleborns elsewhere—from positions in the Ministry of Magic, from teaching, from Healing. Muggleborns simply didn’t have the history or control of their magic to be trusted, it was said, and while Evan thought that was perfect bullshit, he could see where the winds were blowing.

Christie was a Muggleborn. Christie was brilliant, the cleverest witch that Evan had ever met, and she was kind, and she was sweet. Evan had never heard her say an unkind word about anyone, and there were countless occasions when Evan had seen her brush away someone’s hissed _Mudblood_ at her as nothing, even when Evan knew for a fact that it was not. But, brilliant or not, kind or not, sweet or not, she was a Muggleborn, and that meant that she was wrong. She was wrong for him, and Evan could never ask her out, could never take her to a dinner that was a romantic date, could never ask her to marry him. No matter how much Evan might wish it otherwise, that would not change.

But he couldn’t resist. Day by day, it was just coffee. It was just lunch, and it was just dinner. It was just another workday, and day after day made it harder for him to walk away.

* * *

“Evan?”

He looked up from his desk, frowning slightly. Christie hovered in the doorway, her eyes wide and uncertain, her fingers twisting together in front of her. She had long, delicate fingers—she played the piano, she told him once. Evan often wondered what it would be like, letting those fingers play with his own, wrapping her hand in his.

He had never touched her. He spent time with her, but if he ever touched her, he didn’t think that he would ever be able to walk away.

“Yes?” he asked, setting his quill down and smiling. He couldn’t help but smile, even if Christie was behaving strangely. Or, maybe it was the fact that she was behaving strangely that made him smile. It was cute. She was cute.

“I, er—” she took a deep breath. “I have tickets for a film tonight. Two tickets. _The Maltese Falcon_. It’s—it’s a bit of a classic of film noir, see and I was wondering if you’d—if you’d like to come with me? It’s a special retrospective.”

Evan blinked, the smile disappearing from his face. A Muggle film—he knew what they were, of course, it was impossible to venture out into the Muggle world every now and then and not know what they were, and also Christie had mentioned them, on and off. He had mentioned that he’d like to see one, one day, though he wasn’t sure whether he had said it out of genuine interest or simply because he wanted to engage with her.

“I’m not sure that’s—” he hesitated, looking away. “We work together, Christie.”

“You’re right,” she replied hastily, dropping her hands to her sides, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks. “You’re completely right, I don’t know what I was thinking, I’ll just—”

“I’ll go,” he said, interrupting her fluster. It was a terrible idea, but how could he say no, when she had taken the time to get two tickets and to invite him? It was one thing for him to deny himself, but her—if she was inviting him, that felt very different. And her expression, disappointed and embarrassed, was too much for him to refuse.

It was just a film. A film was—well, it didn’t have to be anything. Evan didn’t have any context with films, and it didn’t have to be a date. Certainly films weren’t the same as taking a woman out to dinner, and in this case, Christie had been the one to invite him. And it seemed to be a special event, and her expression—

It had lit up at his words. Her eyes shone, and she was beaming. That, in and of itself, was worth agreeing.

“Oh, you’ll love it!” she told him, her soft voice already filled with excitement. “It’s about a private detective, and it’s a murder mystery—it’s more than twenty years old now, but it’s so good!”

Evan smiled listening to her excited chatter. He was sure that, no matter what the film was, he liked her more than he could like any film. And that night, when her hand slipped into his in the dark confines of a movie theatre, he squeezed and thought about how he wanted to never let go.

Her hand was small, and her skin was soft, and it was warmer than he could ever imagine. They were in the Muggle world, and the movie theatre was dark, and for a few hours Evan Rosier was only Evan Rosier—for these few hours, he wasn’t the Heir Rosier, wasn’t a wizard with a political status and ambitions, and he was free to love whomever and wherever he pleased. He was only Evan Rosier, twenty-one years old, and madly in love with Christina Blake.

* * *

Movies were freedom. Movies, and the Muggle world, became their freedom. _The Maltese Falcon_ was only the first date in a series of dates—mostly movies, but there were museum and gallery visits from time to time, and innumerable breakfasts, lunches and dinners in tiny restaurants and grubby, greasy diners. In the Muggle world, away from the prying eyes of Wizarding Society, he called Christie the name that she deserved.

She was his girlfriend, first. He was never truly comfortable with that word—it seemed too casual to describe such a deep connection for him. Later, he called her his darling, his sweetheart, his love, and while those terms came closer to describing his feelings, even they were lacking. He’d have liked to say more, but he couldn’t. Not yet, at any rate.

In the Wizarding world, things were getting worse. Muggleborns were officially excluded from working in the Ministry of Magic and Ministry of Magic enterprises, and within the Rosier Investment Trust, he could already see the effects of a decade of fearmongering. The most recent classes of people graduating from Hogwarts, with no exposure to Muggleborns, were profoundly uncomfortable with them; the youngest hires into the Rosier Investment Trust treated Christie with, at best, apprehension and at worst, disdain. Christie rarely said anything about it, but she mentioned comments every now and then, and Evan could track, almost on a chart, how those were coming up more and more often.

But Dumbledore’s Light faction was already bringing a challenge to the Muggleborn exclusion law. They would succeed—the law, as it was drafted, could not possibly stand. It was too blunt, too obviously discriminatory. Dumbledore’s challenge to the law would pass, and the bills now in the Wizengamot, requiring higher percentages to pass or repeal laws, would make it so that they didn’t pass again. The SOW Party, while significant, still only held two-fifths of the seats—Dumbledore’s Light faction held another third, and the rest were, like the Rosiers, independents.

It was just a matter of time until the politics turned. Or, even if they didn’t, even if things stayed the same, then it wasn’t so bad as all that. Muggleborns had been excluded, but Evan was the Heir Rosier; he was a pureblood, of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He was already being primed to inherit one of the biggest investment companies in Wizarding Britain, one that managed millions of Galleons and turned thousands of Galleons of profit every year. If he pushed the Rosier Investment Trust profits higher, if he worked harder and made the Rosier name one that was impossible to ignore or offend, then he would be able to do whatever he wanted. No one would protest at him marrying a Muggleborn then, or even if they did, who cared? He would have enough power, enough money, enough authority that they could say nothing.

Until then, he and Christie had the Muggle world, and they had their frequent trips abroad. In France, in Germany, in Italy—there, their blood status didn’t matter. Movies and dinners were commonplace; Saturday trips to the market together became too innumerable to count. When they were in the Muggle world, or when they were abroad, Evan put his arm around her. He held her, he kissed her, he loved her, and he called her his.

In the Wizarding world, they said nothing. They didn’t need to say anything, and Evan worked harder than he ever had in his entire life to see that he could, in a few years, marry a Muggleborn.

* * *

It was not one thing that burst his bubble. It was three.

First, Dumbledore’s Light faction did win their challenge against the Muggleborn exclusion laws in the courts, but the victory was short-lived. Not even two years later, there was already talk of reformulating the bill to exclude people who had been educated abroad, which necessarily included all Muggleborns. It only made sense, Lord Riddle said, because those who had been educated abroad had a connection and a loyalty to another nation. A position in the Ministry of Magic, where they would have access to Wizarding Britain’s most sensitive secrets, made no sense for anyone educated abroad.

On its face, the new, rephrased law was perfectly equitable. But, as the Light faction pointed out, it was not equitable in its effect. Muggleborns were still excluded from Hogwarts, which meant that effectively, no more Muggleborns would be hired in the Ministry. Further, Dumbledore wasn’t having any success in raising the ban at Hogwarts—by now, Muggleborns are been barred from the school for over a decade, and Evan could see that as time passed, the rule had ossified, becoming harder and harder to change.

Second, the politics were shifting, but not in his favour. The bills to require a higher proportion of the Wizengamot to pass law had passed, with an even higher threshold for repeals, but the SOW Party now held more than half of all seats. Dumbledore’s group still only held a third, while the number of Independents were shrinking. The rhetoric in the _Daily Prophet_ was growing stronger and more hateful as years passed; things that would have been unthinkable in print appeared, and they did so to wide acclaim and wide censure both.

Third, his father died. And with his father’s death, the weight of being the Lord Rosier slammed into him heavier than he could ever have imagined.

He was the Lord Rosier. He was noble, and he had status. He was a public figure, and he had responsibilities. Anyone he married would become the Lady Rosier, as much of a public figure as he, and she would have to stand before Wizarding Britain and take whatever they threw at her.

The scent of dried chili flakes and _ras el hanout_ floated in his memory—the scent of his childhood, a tajine filled with home. A fluttering headscarf, and the soft, lulling tones of mixed French and Arabic as his mother sang to him.

His mother had been miserable as the Lady Rosier. She had never said as much, but she had never needed to. Evan had seen it in her eyes, the sadness of being away from home, of being in a place where she was never accepted and would never be accepted.

He and his father didn’t speak of her death. There was nothing to be said about it.

If he married Christie, he would be damning her to that same lonely, miserable existence. And he couldn’t—he couldn’t turn her vibrancy into the pale shades of his mother’s life. He wouldn’t.

It was a lonely Thursday after his father’s funeral—attended largely by employees of the Rosier Investment Trust, because his father had never made many allies among the nobility. His marriage hadn’t been right, and in status the Rosiers still hovered somewhere between the upper middle classes and the true nobility. It was raining, because it was always raining in Kent, and afterwards they shed their Wizarding skins and went to a coffee shop in London.

It was raining in London too, water droplets streaking down glass windowpanes in wavering lines. The soft sound of jazz played in the background, and he found a lonely seat in the corner while Christie went and got their coffees. A vanilla latte for herself, too sweet for his tastes, and a dark roast, heavily bitter, for him. The cup, when she placed it in his hands, was warm.

He didn’t look at her. “You should go. Abroad—to America, or France, or Germany. I have enough money, and I can set you up there. It’ll be a happier place for you.”

Her hands on his were warm. “But would you come with me?”

“I can’t.” He looked up—her eyes were wide, her eyebrows pinched together in mixed sympathy and worry. “I’m the Lord Rosier—I have responsibilities here. Political responsibilities, and responsibilities to the Trust.”

“Then I won’t go either.” Christie smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to that smile too. “Because you’re here, Evan—you’re here, and my parents are here, and my work is here. I can’t just leave those behind.”

“I’ll never be able to give you what you deserve.” Despite so saying, one of his hands fell away from his ceramic coffee mug to envelope hers. “I can’t marry you, Christie. In this world—you’d be miserable. I won’t do that to you. I can’t.”

“I understand,” Christie replied, and she squeezed his hand in turn. “But I’d be miserable without you, and Britain is my home. What we have is enough, Evan—I don’t need more.”

Evan shut his eyes. There were so many things that he should say to that—he should argue with her, he should persuade her that going abroad would be best for her. But he didn’t. He didn’t have the strength to do it. He loved Christie, with ever fibre of his being, so instead, he said the only thing that he could think of saying.

“Thank you.”


	2. Lina Avery and Evan Rosier

Lina was sixteen years old when she realized, for the first time, that she was different.

She was sitting cross-legged on her four-poster in the Gryffindor sixth-year dorms, newly back from the summer holidays, which had been spent dodging her family. Hogwarts was a relief—she was away from home, away from her mother’s despairing, halfway desperate commentary on how she just wished Lina were a little less of a tomboy, a little more of a lady. Lina would be such a pretty girl, if she just tried a little harder, and she was getting to the age where they would need to start looking for matches for her.

As far as she was concerned, she was still too young for it. Her sisters, Portia and Penelope, hadn’t gone looking for matches at sixteen, had they? In any case, they were both in their early twenties, newly married—Mum could be bothering them about grandchildren. Or, there was her brother Elias, nearly twenty-eight and unmarried—why not bother him instead of her youngest daughter over marriage prospects? Other girls might have started looking, but no one was serious, not at this age.

Ellen was sighing on her bed. “And he was very handsome—very French, you know, he just finished at Beauxbatons. My parents like him a lot, and while nothing’s _finalized_ yet, I think he’s the gauge by which they’ll be looking at anyone else.”

“That’s so romantic,” Dorothy said, rolling over onto her elbows from where she had been lying on her bed and propping her chin on her hands. “What’s he like?”

“Oh, well.” Ellen giggled, blushing. “He’s very good at kissing? And his hands are—”

“No!” Marlene slapped the side of the bed. “You didn’t!”

“No, of course not!” Ellen shrieked, blushing an even brighter shade of red. “No, we didn’t go _that_ far, my parents were there, and his parents and his brother were there, we’re not married, and it was just a few minutes in a dark corner—”

“You know, _it_ can also only be a few minutes in a dark corner,” Nancy, who liked to think of herself as being most worldly of them all, said with a sly wink. Lina thought she gave herself airs—certainly, Nancy had never been among the students that Lina had caught engaging in illicit activities in a dark corner on her prefect rounds. The worst that Nancy had done was snog a few boys, sneak a few cigarettes and wear too much makeup.

Besides, anyone who called sex _it_ as if it were some incredibly taboo thing could not be very worldly. People had sex. Animals had sex, too. Sex just _was_ , an activity that was necessary for the propagation of their species, and something that Lina considered with distaste and a mild sense of disgust. As a prefect, she had caught few people at it, and it just seemed so—

Undignified. Invasive. Messy.

“But it _wasn’t_ ,” Ellen insisted, pressing her hands against her cheeks. “I wouldn’t—not that I wouldn’t want to, but you know, I’m not _stupid_.”

“You’d want to?” Lina asked, taken aback. “I mean—really?”

She had always assumed that sex was a duty for women, a responsibility to be dreaded. The boys she caught on her rounds certainly seemed to have enjoyed it, but she had always assumed that it was something of a sacrifice for girls; that they had pressured the girls into it, or that the girls had, as so many girls did, wanted to please. Girls were trained to please—god knew that her mother wanted her to please a little more, though Lina had never felt the need. Sex just seemed so repulsive to her, something that she was supposed to grin and bear to procreate, and certainly never more than necessary.

“Well, with Theo—” Ellen paused, searching for her words. “He’s so handsome, and the way he kisses—yes, I want to sleep with him. Yes. Is that so wrong?”

“No, that’s something you should feel for your future husband!” Marlene said, hopping off her bed to join Ellen on hers and slinging an arm around her protectively while she glared at Lina. “I mean, don’t give it up before you’re actually _married_ , but it’s a good sign if there are sparks! Lina, stop being such a cold fish.”

Lina shrugged slightly. “That’s harsh. I was asking generally, not specifically—I never thought that anyone would really want to have sex. Every time I catch someone on rounds, it just looks uncomfortable and gross.”

Judging by the looks that the other four girls were throwing at her, no one really knew what to say about that. It was Nancy who broke the silence, too-dark eyes cautious and curious.

“Er—well, have you ever—”

Lina made a face. “Of course not.”

Another odd look around the room. Dorothy leaned forward. “What about girls, then? Are you attracted to girls?”

“I don’t think so?” Lina frowned, bewildered. She couldn’t say she had ever really thought about it—her life was mostly a round of Prefect duties, Quidditch, and scrambling to get her essays done while Gavin Stevenson, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, nattered at her about their prospects for the Quidditch Cup. “What do you mean by _attracted_ to, exactly?”

“Like—” Dorothy paused, sitting up on her bed. “Like when you see someone and you think, wow, _they’re really good-looking_ , or something like that. And they look back at you and you get fluttery feelings in your stomach, like your stomach is flipping upside down and you stumble all over your words trying to say good morning to them.”

“And you can’t concentrate in class if they sit beside you,” Marlene added in a rush. “Or, like, you try to concentrate and all you can think about is how good they smell or the way their hands are moving on the Potions bench—”

“I suppose we know why Marlene nearly failed Potions but somehow got an E on the Potions OWL, then,” Nancy cut in with a roll of her eyes, before looking over at Lina. “So? Is there anyone you’re attracted to?”

Lina blinked, mildly disturbed. She liked most people well enough, but she couldn’t say she’d ever had any feelings like that. They seemed very uncomfortable. “I can’t say I’ve ever felt anything like that. About either men or women.”

The other girls exchanged another look.

“Well,” Nancy said finally, frowning a little herself. “I mean—why do you think you catch people snogging and all that? Or all the descriptions of romance in books, where do you think those come from?”

Lina shrugged. “Aren’t those all just metaphors? And I can’t say I ever really thought much about it.”

Another look, then Nancy shrugged back at her. “Well, I like it—I think snogging is fun, and sex is fun too, if you know the right spells to keep yourself from getting pregnant.”

“Mmh,” Marlene agreed, blushing lightly. “Not that I have any personal experience, mind, but I like the idea of it. I like—I don’t know. I’d like to have sex, with someone that loved me, I mean.”

There was another round of agreement, and Lina looked away, feeling very awkward. “It all looks very messy to me. I don’t—” she paused, grappling with her feelings. She had never put it in words before, always having pushed it away to be something to be handled later. She’d come to terms with it later, she would either do what was expected of her or run away, but it had always been something for later. Now, with her roommates’ experiences, it all felt much more immediate.

“I don’t think it’s something I want to do,” she said finally, many years of nebulous dread and avoidance finally coalescing into conscious thought. “Ever. I don’t think I ever want to marry. I just—I don’t want it.”

Her eyes were trained on her bedspread, and one finger traced the red and black geometric design on her quilt. It was runic in design—one of her grandmothers had liked runes, and Lina had picked up a lot of runes from her to supplement her Ancient Runes class. She felt a sag on the bed as one of her dormmates came and sat down beside her.

It was Nancy, who didn’t touch her. Lina had never been one for physical contact; the hugs that her classmates and friends always gave each other didn’t feel necessary or natural to her. Instead, Nancy just cleared her throat.

“If you don’t want to marry or have sex,” she said calmly, “then you shouldn’t have to. Sex is something to be enjoyed, not something to force yourself through because its your duty or responsibility or anything; marriage should be because both people want it. Let’s forget about it, all right?”

“Done.” Lina smiled, awkward in relief. “And I suppose I can pretend that all of your sexual experience was all had outside of Hogwarts.”

Nancy laughed, and they all moved on to talking about other things.

Dodging marriage meetings after that became more complicated. Before, Lina had always expected that she would suck it up and come to terms with it later; now that _later_ was closer to _never_ , she never wanted to make any promises at all. Instead of “Next summer, maybe,” her answers became “I’m going to do a Mastery program overseas,” and then it became, “we’ll discuss this when I’m done my Mastery program.”

Her grades, while not top-notch, were enough to get her into a fully-funded Defence Mastery program in Toulouse. There, she hoped she’d find a more permanent solution.

* * *

Étienne Ducharme was the angriest wizard that Lina had ever met.

The Defence Mastery program she was in was small, only herself and a handful of other students, but Étienne was the only one who spoke to her. The first few days, she had tried to be friendly—her French was stuttering but existent, and she had introduced herself and tried to make conversation every now and then, until Étienne finally stepped in.

“Don’t bother,” he said, his words clipped. “They won’t talk to you. You’re _English,_ and your accent is atrocious.”

She stopped in her path to the others and looked over at him, frowning. Up to this point, Étienne had held himself apart from the others. He rarely spoke in their classes, though his answers were usually correct when questioned, and she had seen that he was excellent at duelling in the training yard. “It’ll stay atrocious if no one talks to me,” she retorted finally. “And why don’t they talk to you?”

Étienne’s lips tilted in a bitter sort of half-smile. “I’m a halfblood,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair to look up at her. “And I know them from Beauxbatons. Blood purity is still important, there.”

Lina blinked. Blood purity was important to her too, or it should have been. The Averys were Sacred Twenty-Eight, though they were less strict with their definitions of purity than many—for them, it was enough that their parents used magic, no need to go into earlier generations. She had gone to Hogwarts with both halfbloods and Muggleborns, though there were only a few of the latter in the upper-years. Hogwarts had excluded Muggleborns a few years before she started, to much debate and protest.

“I see,” she said, because she didn’t have any particular thoughts on the subject herself, and then she took a seat beside him. It was easier to sit beside someone who would talk to her, rather than the cold shoulders that everyone else in their small program showed her.

At first, it was only that Étienne spoke to her as no one else did—but later, she found that she liked him.

Not romantically—she had still never had any of the fluttering feelings that her Hogwarts friends and dormmates had talked about, nor did she think she ever would. It was difficult for her to explain, but the feelings that they had spoken to her that night seemed like something that had nothing at all to do with her. She liked Étienne much as she had liked any of her dormmates, or any of her other school friends, and while the feeling was stronger because of their isolation from their classmates, it wasn’t any different in quality.

She liked Étienne because he was angry. He was angry, and while he said little about why he was so angry, she learned through time that it had much to do with his blood-status. Beauxbatons had not been kind to him—the school was for the elite, and while Étienne had been admitted on the strength of his father’s name, the fact that his mother was a Muggle was a problem. She gathered that, by way of marks, Étienne had done poorly, but no one kept up with Étienne Ducharme in the training yards.

Étienne was fast, and he was hard, and he had no limits. If there were injuries in the training yard Étienne had probably caused them. In the training yards was where Lina saw his anger the most. It was always there, simmering under the surface, but in the training yards it was fully fledged. Unlike the others, who were prone to holding back, Étienne never did. Lina could respect that, and she gave as good as she got—and she found that she was angry too.

She was angry about her future. She was angry that, as a noble girl from a Book of Silver family, the most important contribution to the world that people thought she could make was to marry well and to have children. The fact that she was good at Quidditch, or that she was sharp and intelligent, or that she was mean with a wand was secondary, unimportant, compared to who she would marry. The fact that she was doing a Mastery in Defence, according to her mother, would only drive away her suitors.

Good. She didn’t want suitors anyway.

She wanted to make her own path in life, and Étienne made her feel not only like she could, but that she should. He made her feel like it was her right to step away from her family and Wizarding Britain if she wanted, to embrace the freedom offered by the world, to make her own choices about where she would go, what she would do, and who she would become.

Over two years, it was not only the anger that they bonded over. It was a thousand little things—it was many nights at the local bar, laughing over something their classmates had done, it was the occasional movie or a visit to a street festival. It was the time that Étienne had helped her obtain a Muggle identity, helping her get the appropriate French documents and bank accounts even if they ended up having to use his last name for it. Their relationship was never romantic, never sexual—Étienne, she knew, had occasional flings with Muggle women—but it was the closest relationship she had ever had.

Two years later, they were sitting in his apartment, a bottle of wine open. Étienne had something on his mind—it was harder to pull him into conversation than it was usually, which was unfortunate because Lina really wanted his thoughts on what she would do next. She was twenty now, and she knew what was waiting for her in Britain. Twenty was late to start the rounds of marriage negotiations, which only meant that her mother would be even more adamant.

“What are your plans after we finish?” Étienne asked suddenly, putting down his wine glass. “Return home?”

Lina shook her head. “Find a job somewhere around the world, if I can. Not sure where.”

Étienne nodded, falling silent for a minute or two. “Difficult to get a job in the field as a woman,” he said, his tone strictly factual. “Especially because most Auror departments expect permanent residency, if not citizenship.”

“That’s true.” Lina knew it, and it had been a point of issue for some time. She had applied for the Auror Corps of France, Switzerland, and even Britain but hadn’t had any luck—Britain, she knew, was probably hesitant to take a noblewoman into their Auror corps, but France and Switzerland had given her no response at all. It wasn’t for lack of time, because two others in their class had been accepted by the French Aurors. “I was thinking of applying to the Canadian Auror Corps. It’s far, but I hear they value bilingualism, and their population is small enough that they have good immigration programs.”

“That is a good idea,” Étienne agreed, but she knew from his tone that he had something else in his mind. “Canada is also very progressive, compared to France. No residual nobility.”

“I’m nobility.” Lina reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. Étienne hated the nobility, seeing in them the elite with whom he had suffered seven years of Beauxbatons, and needed the reminder. “What are you thinking?”

Étienne reached for the bottle of wine and topped his glass up again. “I’m thinking of going to Iceland.”

“Iceland?” Lina’s eyes widened. Étienne didn’t need to be more specific—nearly holding a Defence Mastery, they all knew what _Iceland_ meant.

Iceland was the home to the Stormwing Institute. None of them had ever met a Stormwing; the warmages were as famous as they were rare. It was said that half of those who even attempted the training left, and that a third of the ones who made it through the training died in their mandatory field placements. It wasn’t worth it, most Defence Masters said—and those that didn’t said nothing on the subject at all.

It didn’t even really make sense to become a Stormwing. Defence Masters and Mistresses were respected and respectable. They were hired by Auror Corps around the world, or they worked in magical research and development, or they became a part of any number of adjacent professions like teaching, Curse-breaking, or working with magical creatures. Stormwings, however, were not respectable—only a few militaries around the world hired them, and for the most part they were mercenaries.

It was said that those who went to become Stormwings were desperate. They were either running towards something, or running away from it, and they didn’t mind if they lost their lives in the attempt. Lina could see immediately why it drew Étienne; Étienne was angry, and there was nowhere else for his angered energy to run. He was angry because of his blood-status, which she had gathered had led to many unpleasant experiences at Beauxbatons, but there was no easy, pureblood supremacist bulwark upon which he could throw himself. France formally espoused blood equality, and in practice, Étienne’s complaints were largely chalked up to his own inability to let childhood bygones be bygones.

But Lina, too, was desperate. She didn’t want to return to Britain, and if no one accepted her application, that was where she’d have to go. She didn’t have the funding to go anywhere else unless she found work.

The Stormwings paid for everything for those who entered their program. There was no tuition, it was said, and they paid for board and lodge. Their field placements were also paid, if they got there, and from there they would have the experience to find work elsewhere. It was said that there were always contracts for Stormwings.

Wizarding Britain and a marriage she didn’t want on one hand, and famously dangerous Stormwing training with Étienne on the other. The choice was easy.

She reached for her wine glass. “If you’re going, I’ll go too,” she said casually, not meeting Étienne’s eyes. “When are we leaving?”

She didn’t need to look at him to know that he was relieved.

* * *

Iceland was cold, and it was icy, and Stormwing training was every bit as dangerous as the rumours said.

The first six months reminded Lina heavily of their Defence Masteries. They woke early, earlier than she was used to in their spare, icy-cold barracks, and the mornings were devoted to battle strategy and tactics, Muggle weaponry, and developing a secondary magical channelling system. Every Stormwing was required to have a secondary magical channelling system, such as runes, or chants, or blood-magic, in case they were deprived of their primary; Lina chose Runes as her second channeling method, while Étienne took blood magic. The afternoons were devoted to physical training, which was harder than it had been in their Defence Masteries, but effectively the same. Unlike in their Mastery programs, they were expected to use their secondary channelling methods on the field.

At six months and in the middle of winter, Lina was thankful for the practice, because they were thrown out in the centre of Iceland without their primary magical casting implements. For most, that meant wands, while the Chinese heirloom-casters took on a spell that prevented them from calling their traditional weapons. It was a three-week-long survivalism challenge, one that Lina and Étienne banded together to survive, and one which sent home a fifth of the candidates.

After the survivalism challenge, they had a reprieve of nearly a year of more classwork and training, but the classes became harder. Rather than one-on-one duels, they moved into group skirmishes, where the training Stormwings often made the sides unequal and forced them to learn both how to lead and how to follow orders. Lina learned how to command, which often required shutting down someone who challenged her, and she learned how to make sacrifices. Those challenges led to another few students leaving, but Lina couldn’t say she cared. Étienne was still there with her, and the threat of what waited for her in Wizarding Britain kept her there with him.

The torture acclimation program took out a third of the remaining candidates. Lina had known it was coming; no one could meet a Stormwing and not know that it was coming. Stormwings knew exactly how long they would last under torture, and that time was an indelible part of their traditional introductions. The torture acclimation training, however, was critical because unlike most mages, Stormwings did not crack and go insane under torture; instead, they went berserk and killed everyone around them, then regained themselves once everyone around them was dead. It was grotesque, but in their line of work, necessary.

Torture acclimation was possibly the worst thing that Lina had ever gone through. It was horrific, being put under the Cruciatus Curse twice a day, every day, for extended periods of time; but in the evenings, when she thought about whether she would rather leave, she found that she wouldn’t. Étienne was still there, and a half-hour or hour of torture acclimation was better to her than a return to Wizarding Britain and a marriage she didn’t want.

After torture acclimation, the remainder of the program was almost easy. They learned the spells to unlock their lifeforces, to sacrifice themselves where it was necessary for them to do so, and they learned the consequences of doing so. They learned Stormwing traditions, as few as there were, and then they went on field placements.

The year was 1966. The main field placements available were in Africa, Vietnam, Eastern Europe, or Wizarding China. Wizarding China took only the Chinese, and while she and Étienne argued about the merits of going to Vietnam, they ultimately decided against it. Wizarding China had taken an interest in the Vietnam War, and neither of them were interested in fighting against their own classmates. In a few years, they would, but for now their own bonds of survival together were too strong. Instead, they went to Eastern Europe, where the Dhampiri Order employed no less than a dozen Stormwings at any time.

They weren’t always together on placement—Stormwings were rare enough that they couldn’t be placed together, and Lina served in a different unit than Étienne. Both of them were, however, stationed in Budapest, attached to the units that had English as their primary language of communication. A year was spent trailing more experienced Stormwings, attending meetings, taking notes, and watching how the dhampir and fully-fledged Stormwings planned and executed a strike.

In many ways, placement was far easier than their training. That all made the ending that much harder to take.

It was nearly the end of their training, and their units were collaborating on a strike on a vampire nest in

Szeged, just north of the Hungarian border. It was a large nest, one that had been brewing in secret for at least a half-century—long enough for the oldest vampires to reach a minor lord status, having imbibed enough of the essence of their victims. But the dhampir had blown out enough of these nests, and it was not supposed to be dangerous.

It was not supposed to be dangerous.

Lina went in first, because she neither saw anyone nor heard anyone. It was the middle of the day, and while the crypt they were going into was dark, she didn’t think. She had the backup of two full dhampir units, twenty fighters strong, as well as two fully fledged Stormwings and Étienne. She was the one who had the responsibility for knowing what they were walking into, and it was her hand that waved the signal for them to proceed.

She hadn’t noticed the tracks. She hadn’t noticed that things were _different—_ she hadn’t realized the importance of the coven not having a guard on duty when that was an error generally made only by younger covens. And when they stormed the crypt to find a negotiation meeting between two covens and twice as many vampires as predicted, it was Étienne who paid the price.

Lina had gotten out. Étienne hadn’t.

It was with Étienne in mind that she finished her field placement, and it was with him in mind that she picked her attributes: duty, tolerance, and caution. Duty, because Étienne had never followed anything like it, and maybe she should. Tolerance, because Étienne had despised pureblood supremacy and had always felt the outsider. And caution, to remind her of her mistake.

Then, initiation ceremony complete, identifying tattoos on her back and ring hanging on a chain around her neck, she went home. She didn’t have anywhere else to go.

* * *

Eight years. That was how long Lina dodged marriages. Sometimes, on some days, she felt like she might be able to stomach it for her family, but that never lasted. The memory of Étienne would appear, snarling that she was not this person, she was not a person who capitulated, and she would run. There were contracts abroad—two months Russia, six months in the Middle East, eight months in Africa. Almost a full year in Vietnam, since she felt nothing about countering her old classmates anymore, but always she returned.

She developed a reputation. Eveline Avery ran from marriages. There was a failed proposal almost every year, and her ways of escape became more daring. One time, when her brother was posted to guard her to prevent her escape, she paid off a Healer to say she was terminally ill and poisoned herself until the prospective groom called it off. Another time, again under guard this time, no easy escape opportunity presented itself until the wedding day itself, which was when she gave up waiting, knocked out her guard, and slipped away. Her parents despaired of her, but eventually the proposals would stop.

They had to stop. She was getting older, and no one would want her anymore, and that would be a good thing. 

It was in 1974 that she met Evan Rosier. He was from a Book of Copper family, her mother had said desperately, and his mother had been a foreigner, but he did have rather a lot of money and Lina didn’t have many options now. Her father had scowled—she had run out his patience some five years ago, and while she often thought that she should really leave and set herself up elsewhere, ultimately she always came back. Not for lack of money, because her Muggle accounts had enough of it to sustain her between contracts, but for a connection. Any connection at all.

Lina liked to come home to someone. She just didn’t want that person to be a spouse.

At least the Lord Rosier had requested that their meeting occur privately—doors would be open as usual for propriety, but there would be no interfering parents involved. She vaguely recalled the Lord Rosier from school—he had been a year above her, she thought, maybe two. Now, they were both in their thirties, well past the age that nobles of their generation were expected to marry.

When he walked in, he was somehow not what she had expected. From a purely aesthetic perspective, he was better-looking than she had thought a single bachelor in his thirties in Wizarding Britain would be, with only a few wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth. His eyes were an odd, determined orange-yellow, and he took his seat on the sofa across from her. A wand appeared from inside his fine robes, and he rather gracelessly threw a muffling charm at the door.

Lina raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. A muffling charm was to her advantage anyway.

“You know I won’t marry you, right?” she said conversationally, eyeing the Lord Rosier carefully.

“I’m not here to propose,” Rosier replied, staring at her directly with those odd, orange-yellow eyes. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

Lina straightened in her seat, narrowing her eyes. “A job?”

She had never told her parents what she did when she was away—she only said that she travelled, and that she worked on the strength of her Defence Mastery. They had cut her off years ago, in an effort to control her behaviour, but Lina came and went as she wanted. There was no reason why anyone in Wizarding Britain should know anything about what she did, not as isolated as her nation had become in recent years.

“That’s correct,” Rosier said, glancing at the door to ensure no one was watching. “You are a Stormwing. Outside of this country, you’re known for taking mercenary contracts. I’m afraid the job I am offering is not as active as your other work, but it is extraordinarily important to me, and I hope that you will consider it.”

Lina was intrigued. She leaned forward. “What is this job?”

“My—” Rosier paused, finding the words. “The woman I love—the woman I love _desperately_ —is a Muggleborn. In this political climate, and with my position in society, I cannot marry her. I need someone to pose as my wife and as the Lady Rosier to protect her, but more than that, should the political situation grow worse, I need someone able to act to protect her. For this, I am willing to pay.”

Lina propped her chin on one hand. “Why can’t you marry her?”

Rosier blinked. “The political climate and my position in society,” he repeated slowly, though Lina had heard him perfectly well the first time.

“I don’t see what those have to do with not marrying her,” Lina said coolly. “There are no laws against it. She would become noble, and would enjoy your status—while families would certainly look down on you for it, say that you were sacrificing your status within the Sacred Twenty-Eight, there is no prohibition.”

There was a long pause, and Rosier looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “My mother was never happy. My mother was never accepted, and she was never happy, and when she took her own life…” he paused, then he cleared his throat, not finishing the sentence. “I do not want that for Christie. She has friends within my company. She has friends in the Muggle world. Marrying her would take that away from her. Further, as we are a business family, such a move would result in a large share of our investors withdrawing their funds—even if I cannot marry her, I want to support her. She is my wife in all but name, and if I cannot marry her, I will ensure that she wants for nothing.”

Lina raised an eyebrow again. “ _Will not_ , not _cannot_ ,” she corrected him, but there was no judgement in her tone. “If this is a job, how much are you offering?”

Rosier named a sum that was large enough that Lina’s eyes widened. Being a mercenary paid well, even working part-time as Lina did, but the amount that Rosier had named was well beyond that. With that sum of money, Lina could—

It was large enough that she didn’t know what she could do with it. Buy eighteen of those handsome cars that Étienne had always loved, maybe. Every year, until she had a collection of a hundred cars that she’d never drive. Étienne had liked driving.

She drew her wand and Summoned parchment, a quill, and a writing desk. “Terms,” she said, beginning to write. “A full-time open-ended bodyguarding contract, with included subterfuge, political analysis and military advice as necessary, for Evan Rosier and…?”

“Christina Blake.”

“For Evan Rosier and Christina Blake,” Lina repeated. “What hours are you considering? Obviously you intend that I will be a live-in bodyguard, and therefore I would like to clarify the terms of my lodging, as well as time off. I enjoy my other mercenary work, and surely you can work it that your supposed wife travels for long stretches of time.”

Evan inclined his head, and they began to deal.

It was not a bad deal, all things considered. Their marriage was a complete sham, of course, but Lina now had a veneer of respectability in Wizarding Britain. Rather than cars, the funds that Evan paid her went largely to her start-up security analysis firm in Toulouse, the city that she and Étienne had loved. Most years, she spent near six months abroad, either on mission or in Toulouse, but she always had a home to return to in Wizarding Britain.

Shockingly, she even liked Evan, and Christie, and Aldon when he came along. Evan might be a coward, but he cared deeply about Christie and Aldon. Christie might be a little too soft and lacking in self-respect, but she was smart and had a thousand interesting thoughts locked in her head that she would share if she was in the right mood. Aldon might have been a bumbling child who cared too much about being liked, but he had inherited both the intelligent curiosity of his mother and the dogged determination of his father. They were imperfect, all of them, but they became her family.


	3. Christina Blake and Lina Avery

There was a unique relationship, Christie thought, between a woman and her lover’s wife.

She didn’t deny that when Evan told her his plans, she had her misgivings. She understood that Evan couldn’t marry her, not in the circumstances, and she even understood that he needed to have some way to deflect attention. But did he really have to marry another woman, even if it was supposed to be a sham?

But the world was changing around them. It was hard enough coming back to Britain after going to school abroad, and Muggleborns had always gotten looks and comments, but it was worse now than it was a dozen years ago. if Evan said it was necessary, then Christie trusted him. He hadn’t looked very happy when he told her the plans, which was some relief—Christie didn’t really believe that Evan’s eye would be attracted elsewhere, not after a decade of a relationship, but his apologetic manner was still a comfort.

Eveline Avery was not what Christie had expected. She hadn’t really thought about what she expected, but somehow, she had expected someone… different.

She was larger than Christie had expected—Evan had said that Eveline had a Defence Mastery and worked short Defence-related contracts abroad, so Christie had expected someone very fit and trim. And it wasn’t that Eveline wasn’t fit, but she had more weight on her than Christie would have expected. She was stocky, shorter than Christie, but at least two stone heavier. Christie would bet that most of that weight was muscle. Her face was more handsome than lovely, though Christie wondered how much of that was her expression, which was studying her as critically as Christie examining her.

“Don’t worry,” Lina said. “I don’t want him, and he doesn’t want me.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Christie replied faintly, and she could almost believe it.

The years that followed showed no sign that Lina had been lying. Christie knew that, whatever sham ceremony had been put on, Lina didn’t share rooms with Evan and never had. She could believe, from the amount of time that Evan still showered on her at work and in the Muggle world, that Evan had no interest in her—not like that. And Lina was gone for months at a time, in France or elsewhere around the world, and Evan quietly spread the word that Lina was taking responsibility for some of the Rosier Investment Trust’s international business affairs. It gave her an excuse to be abroad often, and if truth be told…

Christie was more comfortable with the other woman far away from her. Whatever Evan said, whatever Lina said, she didn’t think she would ever feel anything other than vague uneasiness at the other woman’s role in their lives.

* * *

That changed with Aldon.

Aldon had been an accident. A happy accident, but one nonetheless—a little too much wine after a romantic evening, and she’d fallen pregnant. Despite the situation, she had never really considered any option other than having him. Whatever happened, Aldon was proof that she and Evan loved each other, or so she chose to believe. Having him was illogical, but she’d always wanted a child. She liked children, and after the recent loss of her own parents, she had wanted a physical connection to something more.

Giving Aldon up, however, was something else completely. She knew that Evan was right—she knew that keeping him with her, especially when he clearly took after his father, would not be what was best for him.

The laws that had been passed since even a few years prior had shown the slide. It was not only Muggleborns being discriminated against now; there was talk of extending the exclusion laws to halfbloods, both for Hogwarts and for jobs. Debates had started about who would be considered pureblooded or not, and those measures, Christie knew, would not include her son. Aldon did not have four magic-using grandparents, and only by the loosest and losing measures would he have the same rights that his father and Lina enjoyed.

She didn’t want that for him, and what was a mother supposed to do but to give him a good future? Christie couldn’t offer him pureblood status, and she didn’t think she could offer him anything that would compensate. If she kept him, she would have to leave the Rosier Investment Trust; in the current political climate, she doubted she would find a job elsewhere in Wizarding Britain, and she had no Muggle qualifications. She would be a single mother, still panned in the Muggle world and trebly so in the wizarding one. If she kept Aldon, everything she could provide wouldn’t be what he deserved.

The day she gave him up would be, she knew, etched in her memory forever. She had had Aldon only a few days, but he had clung to her, slept against her, cuddled against her, and he was perfect. Handing him over to Lina felt like ripping out and handing over a piece of her heart, to a woman that Christie couldn’t even say that she liked.

“You don’t have to do this.” Lina cradled the child with more softness than Christie had hitherto thought her capable, considering Christie with an odd, thoughtful eye. “Evan wants you to, but you don’t have to.”

“I can’t offer him anything.” Christie looked away, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. “What would he have with me? A single, probably unemployed mother, and a halfblood status. The plan is what’s best for him.”

“Is it, now.” Lina’s tone suggested that she was less sure of that fact than Christie wanted her to be. “Aldon will be a halfblood whatever we say, Christie. It’s simply a fact. And challenges can be overcome. There’s nothing keeping you in Wizarding Britain; you could raise Aldon elsewhere. America, or Canada, if you please. You’re a talented witch.”

“Blood status doesn’t mean anything that we don’t want it to mean,” Christie muttered harshly, wishing that Lina would just take Aldon and go. If she didn’t, Christie would waver, and she would end up doing something crazy, like taking her baby back come what may. “No one will know that he’s a halfblood, not if we’re careful. Not for sure. He can enjoy all the benefits of being a pureblood, and Evan—Evan will make sure he gets everything he deserves.”

“I don’t know much about children, Christie,” Lina said carefully, “but I think they need more than wealth and a pureblood status. A noble upbringing is not all that it seems, and Evan would pay support. You know he would.”

“Evan can give Aldon better than what I can give him.” Christie’s voice was firm, and by now she had turned away completely. She didn’t want to watch Aldon disappear. She wanted him back in her arms too much. “Better than the support would give us. Just _go_ , Lina.”

There was a sigh behind her. “If you’re sure,” Lina replied, sounding utterly resigned. “Do you need anything?”

Christie sniffed. “I think—I’d like to get away, for awhile,” she murmured. “For just a little while.”

“I’ll talk to Evan. Anything else?”

Christie hesitated. “Take care of him, Lina. Please.”

“I’m not usually the person one asks to take care of anyone, unless they mean assassinating someone,” Lina said, an odd, soft note to her voice, and there was a tap on Christie’s shoulder. Christie looked to see a serious, intense look in Lina’s eyes. “But I’ll protect him, Christie. Of that, you have my word, and I don’t break my word.”

* * *

After that, she met with Lina more regularly. Christie hadn’t been able to see Evan after Aldon—Evan looked too much like her son, and while she still went on a few stupid, stupid dates with him after Aldon was born, they were fewer. She spent more time on her own pursuits, meeting her own Muggle friends and focusing on the New Developments Division, where Evan was now required to tell her in advance by letter if he needed to meet with her. Evan’s contact with her was limited to his packages, two or three a year, which always included a letter, a gift for her, and photos.

But Lina would speak to her about Aldon. Not just the good things, but everything. Christie knew when Aldon had teethed, and how much he had sobbed. She knew when Aldon had learned how to read, about the embarrassment that Lina had suffered when Aldon had invaded his parents’ business meetings to talk about his hiccoughs—mostly his father’s meetings, but Lina had been there watching. She knew when Aldon had made his first friend, and when he practiced his baby negotiation skills on Lina by bartering his dessert to have his friend over; she knew when he had started to fly and promptly gotten frightened three feet off the ground and fallen; she knew when he had impressed or disappointed his many tutors. Friends, brooms, and tutors that he wouldn’t have had, had he stayed with her, she reminded herself. She had done the right thing, by giving him up.

The bell over the diner door was a loud, discordant jingle. A bell was a kind word to call it—it was in fact a jumble of several small, round bells, and the way that it swung and hit the door made the sound more of the hard thud than a ring. A blast of cold air came into the diner, letting in the chilly, damp breeze of a London winter. Christie’s head come up, as it had done the last four times that the door had opened, and this time she recognized the owner.

“So?” she asked eagerly, not even waiting for Lina to take her coat off. This was the Muggle world, and Lina had dressed to blend in—of a sort, anyway. Her leather jacket was rougher than would normally be seen in this neighbourhood, and her t-shirt with the design of what looked like a rock band emblazoned on it was far too casual. Even for a greasy spoon diner.

“Give me a moment,” Lina replied with a slight yawn, signalling a waitress into coming by. “I just got back from Sri Lanka a few days ago, I’m still jetlagged. Coffee, please, and I’ll have the full English breakfast. Christie?”

“Oh, er—the French toast,” Christie said, without really thinking about it.

“With ham, bacon, or sausages?” The waitress asked, bored.

“Ham is fine, thank you.” Christie replied, slightly impatient, and not particularly caring which one they brought out to her. She just wanted the waitress to go away so that Lina could tell her about Aldon again. Aldon had started school this year, and she wanted to know everything.

“You don’t even like ham,” Lina commented, eyebrow raised.

“You can have it, if you like.” Christie shifted in her seat. “Tell me about him, Lina.”

Lina shrugged, waiting for a plain, white coffee mug to be produced for her and filled with thick black coffee. “What do you want to know?”

“ _Everything_ ,” Christie said, the way she always did. “Evan says he sorted into Slytherin House. Does he like it there? Is he making other friends? Does he like it at school, does he like the food, does he like his classes?”

Lina shrugged again. “I knew he would Sort into Slytherin—he cares too much about his status to Sort anywhere else, and he is ambitious and resourceful enough. My guess is that he likely had a choice of Ravenclaw or Slytherin, but he’d never opt to Sort elsewhere, not when Slytherin is largely considered to be the centre of power now. He cares too much about things like prestige and status to ever make a choice otherwise.”

“That’s harsh, Lina,” Christie said, even if she was listening carefully and putting everything in her memory. “Surely you have something good to say about him.”

“He’s clever.” Lina frowned, looking out the window, as if saying something nice about their son would kill her. “He is very clever—he likes to read, and he’s naturally inclined towards magical theory. His first-term marks were strong in Charms and Transfiguration. He doesn’t like to get dirty, though, so Herbology is likely a complete write off.”

Despite herself, Christie was startled into a laugh. She, too, had never liked Herbology—she didn’t like sticking her hands in the dirt, and had dropped it as fast as she could at Ilvermorny. Lina looked at her, a wry smile crossing her face.

“Academically, he’s inclined to the same things that you are,” Lina said, taking a sip from her mug of coffee. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to go into the same field as you. He’s naturally drawn to the same sort of technical, theoretical work and I think he would be interested in new magical technology. I could arrange a meeting for you, if you’d like, under the guise of his interests. He would enjoy it.”

The smile that had spread over her face disappeared, as if Christie had gotten a face full of icy water. _See_ Aldon? She couldn’t. She could see his photos, she could hear about him, but seeing him would be a step too far. She didn’t know what she would do if Aldon was there, physical and in front of her. “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she stammered. “What would I say to him? I couldn’t.”

“You could,” Lina objected, a dark look coming into her eyes. “I expect you have enough in common that in a work environment, you would have no problem talking about magical theory alone for hours. And there would be others there, I don’t think you would forget yourself.”

“I couldn’t,” Christie repeated, this time looking down into her own mug of coffee—decaf, this one. Christie usually preferred coffee, but on days that she met Lina, it made her too jangly. “I just—I couldn’t. I gave him up once, and I don’t know that I could do it again, Lina.”

There was a sigh on the other side of the table. “I never agreed with that decision,” Lina said coolly, and Christie didn’t look at her. Lina had said so many times throughout Aldon’s life—sometimes, Christie hated her for it. Lina got to be the mother in Aldon’s life that Christie couldn’t be, and she didn’t even want it.

But at the same time, Lina’s disagreement was because she believed that Christie should have kept Aldon for herself, in the face of all the barriers that would be set up against him. She, somehow, thought there was something that Christie could offer that was equal to or better than the wealth, the nobility, and the pureblood status that Evan and the ruse provided him.

“You can’t eat love, Lina,” Christie replied, her voice filled with grim finality. “We did what was best for him. Tell me something else about him. Tell me—tell me about his friends. Did he make new friends at school?”

Lina sighed again, but let Christie change the subject. “As far as I know, he’s friendly with everyone, but he doesn’t really call anyone except Edmund Rookwood his friend.”

* * *

She did meet Aldon. Years later, when Evan approached her and said that Aldon, newly turned seventeen, wanted to work in her Division, she had been hard-pressed to say no. From Lina’s comments, she knew well that Aldon class selection had heavily tilted towards her own favourite classes: Runes, Arithmancy, Magical Theory. No Alchemy, unfortunately, but from what Lina had said, Hogwarts didn’t have much of an Alchemy program anyway.

He was, in so many respects, everything that Lina had told him. He was somewhat reserved at work—friendly with all, but not friends with anyone—and he was as smart as Lina had always mentioned he was. Better yet, and just as Lina said, he was interested in her field of work—genuinely interested, with a fascination for the intricacies of magical theory that had Christie delighted and sad by turns. Delighted, because it was a part of her that had made its way in him, and sad because whatever she might have wanted, she could never have been able to watch it grow. With Hogwarts passing laws to exclude halfbloods only four years after Aldon was born, he’d never have been able to school in Britain without her giving him up. 

But there were so many things that Lina hadn’t told her. Lina had never mentioned how much of Christie shone in Aldon physically—Mendelian genetics had given Aldon her detached earlobes, and she could see that Aldon didn’t have the height or build that Evan did. He was shorter, slender, without Evan’s broad shoulders. His fingers, when she caught sight of him writing, could have come off her hands—he had piano hands, just as she did. With those hands, he’d have no trouble scaling an octave.

Lina had never mentioned how thoughtful Aldon was. While he wasn’t quiet and he would make his thoughts known, he was always polite. And, unlike so many people that Christie had met in Wizarding Britain, Aldon didn’t seem to have a hint of pureblood supremacism in him. He treated everyone in the New Developments Division as individuals first, without seeming to even think about their blood statuses. It was more than Christie had dared to believe—she knew that Evan and Lina didn’t hold with pureblood supremacy, but they were a part of the SOW Party for political reasons, and she had expected Aldon to imbibe more pureblood supremacist beliefs while at school, where both Muggleborns and halfbloods were now banned.

It was a wild stroke of luck that he truly hadn’t seemed to have adopted any pureblood supremacist beliefs—or so she had thought.

Christie knew what it meant the minute that word came from the Wizarding Court of Law about Aldon’s Summoning of Justice. Christie knew enough magical theory to know about the organization of magic through generations; Muggleborns, like her, had magic that was wild, often able to do things that other mages couldn’t. Some of that wildness was retained into the second and third generations but was generally gone by the fourth. That was why Muggleborns never had any of the pureblood gifts, but that same wildness meant that there were specific Muggleborn and halfblood gifts as well, and some of them didn’t have names.

Truth-Speaking was one such gift, and Christie felt her stomach drop. Of course, Aldon hadn’t had pureblood supremacist beliefs—being a Truth-Speaker interested in magical theory, he had no doubt discovered the truth of his own origins for himself at some point long before he met her. How much did he suspect—or worse, how much did he know?

One couldn’t lie to a Truth-Speaker, and she felt her last summer flash in her memory. Aldon had asked about her family, she had remembered—it was odd, a little unnatural, as easily as he had played it. He rarely asked anything personal of anyone. And more than once, she had caught his golden eyes on her with a curious, considering sort of expression. She had always written it off—her desk was in a prominent part of the room—but now she had to wonder.

Evan wasn’t at the Rosier Investment Trust when the news came—indeed, he and most of the Board were at mediation over a commercial dispute with Gringotts Bank. Something about Gringotts’ monopoly on international treasure expeditions, but Christie couldn’t say she cared. He couldn’t be disturbed, one did not interrupt a high-profile mediation, and Lina was in France.

Christie swallowed, feeling lightheaded as she got up from the desk where Ryu had been telling her the news. With the Board gone, with Lina gone, she was the most senior officer at the Rosier Investment Trust, both by years worked and by position. Apparently, someone needed to go fetch Aldon from Court, and no one had stepped forward. No one had stepped forward to help her little boy

“I’ll go and get him,” she said, hoping that she sounded natural even if her lips were numb.

“Are you sure?” Ryu tilted his head slightly, frowning. “He knows me, and I have pureblood status. It might be safer for me—”

“No, I’ll go.” Christie said, cutting him off and checking her pocket for her wand. “You stay here.”

Ryu sighed and shook his head. “No, Christie. If he’s indeed Summoned Justice, then he won’t be lucid. I haven’t seen it myself, but the Japanese legends of Kosei-sama are clear. Once possessed, he will not be free until the end of the hearing. I’m coming with you, you’ll need the help to get him home. And I have pureblood status.”

“Fine,” Christie replied, not particularly caring whether he came along, as long as she was there. This was Aldon, her baby, and he needed her. He needed her because Evan was busy, and Lina was in France, and no one else had gone to get him. “Aman can take charge here.”

* * *

Aldon seemed tiny, curled up in the centre of the bed in her second bedroom, and somehow incongruous with her purple covers. He had collapsed almost immediately upon leaving the dais, and Christie had been glad that Ryu had been there to help her cart him home—if not by helping her physically, by handling the spellwork to get them back to her penthouse with as little attention paid to them as possible.

Aldon wasn’t a baby anymore, but something about him made her want to gather him up in her arms and snuggle with him as if he still were. He looked so helpless, unconscious in her second bedroom.

She could hear Lina and Evan fighting in the kitchen. Lina had sent her out of the way, telling her that she would handle it, while Evan had been yelling about the consequences of what she had done. The ruse was over, now—there could be no other option, not with Aldon a Truth-Speaker and one currently possessed by Justice, not when she had had to admit their relationship to the Incarnation. One did not lie to Justice.

“Of course, she went for Aldon, what did you expect her to do?” she could hear Lina scoffing. “It doesn’t matter, Evan—I don’t know if you’ve realized, but if Aldon is a Truth-Speaker, and he must be if he summoned Justice, then this was well overdue. It explains a lot.”

“What _is_ a Truth-Speaker?” Evan demanded, his tones harsh. “No one has explained, and I don’t see—”

“A Truth-Speaker is someone with the gift of truth,” Lina snarled impatiently. “It’s a rare gift, and not one that purebloods can get. Something about pureblood magic makes the gift incompatible with our cores. No one can lie to a Truth-Speaker—the Order has one on retainer, and they pay him his weight in gold. Given Aldon’s personal interests, he almost certainly knows that he’s a halfblood, if he hasn’t already worked out the full details of his parentage. He has Christie’s intellectual curiosity and your dogged determination, and it certainly explains the somewhat revolutionary bent his reading has taken in recent years.”

“Revolutionary?!” Evan spluttered. “He’s not—he’s was in Slytherin, he’s the Heir Rosier, he’s a member of the SOW Party, how can he be a revolutionary?!”

“He’s not a member of the SOW Party, he’s eighteen bloody years old,” Lina snapped. “We might have joined the SOW Party, but he hasn’t. And I know your eyes have been glazing over those notices from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement about the books he buys, but half of his magical theory reading in the past two years is banned in Wizarding Britain. I had to Confundus two Aurors who were looking to interview him a year ago! I would bet good money he’s also smuggling a couple journals from abroad.”

“They’re all just magical theory books! Theory, not—revolutionary.”

“Knowledge can be rather revolutionary when one is discovering a world that has been hidden from them.” Lina’s voice was cold. “The question is, Evan, what do we do from here?”

There was a long silence.

“This is what you’re paid for, Lina.” Evan sounded resigned. “What do you suggest? How do we save this? I wanted Aldon to be safe. I want him to inherit Rosier Place, and all that comes with it, and I want him to have all the status that, by birth, he is entitled to have. How do we do that?”

Lina snorted. “First, he’s eighteen years old—even in the Muggle world, he would be considered an adult responsible for his own choices. You can’t keep thinking of him like a child that will grow up to fill your shoes. For the moment, I suggest you disown him. Christie will take him in. Aldon won’t handle the public uproar well when he comes to, and the Muggle world will be safer for him than the wizarding one for the time being. Especially with the Marriage Law on the table again.”

“But if I disown him—" Christie heard Evan suck in a breath. “How can he inherit?”

“I don’t mean full disownment,” Lina replied, and Christie could imagine the formidable Stormwing flapping a hand at Evan. “I mean a public and political one. You say you disown him in _Daily Prophet_ , we announce it, and we dawdle on the magical part of it. It’s a complex blood rite, it’s difficult to get supplies, et cetera. Aldon’s been taught what to do and how to claim the manor, and he knows how to claim it by might as well as by blood and right. He also knows very well what legal and noble rights he continues to have as a blood noble—I made sure he did, years ago.”

“I don’t like it, but fine. What about his living?” There was a pause, then a rustle. “Aldon needs to have a job, he needs income. I won’t have him suffering without all the things he’s used to having. I need to go deal with the blasted _Daily Prophet_ and questions from Lord Riddle. See how Christie feels about splitting the Trust and taking the New Developments Division off on her own, it’s not ideal for us but it will give them both income and it will keep questions about her away from her.”

“Go on, then.” There was a wry note in Lina’s voice. “Handle it, and I’ll speak to Christie.”

Christie shut her eyes, letting out a deep breath, turning and looking at the Stormwing when Lina creaked the door open. “He’s still out of it,” she said faintly, gesturing to Aldon’s sleeping form. “Justice said he would wake up for an hour or so tonight, but that he wouldn’t be fully himself—”

Lina was smiling. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it.” Christie looked back at Aldon. “So—so I’m to take him in?”

Her voice was wavering, somewhere between apprehension and fright and happiness, and she wasn’t sure about anything. To Aldon, she was only his boss at work; and now she was being handed him, a grown adult, to mother.

“You’ll be fine.” Lina leaned in the doorway. “Just be yourself, and it’ll be fine.”

“But I don’t know what foods he likes, or what he likes to watch, or…”

Lina shrugged. “I don’t really know either, and he doesn’t watch anything because tellies don’t work in Rosier Place or at Hogwarts. Experiment, he’s an adult. He’ll find his own things that he likes.”

Christie looked back at Aldon, taking a deep breath. “Yes. All right. But what about—what about later? He should have everything. I wanted him to have everything, everything that I couldn’t give him.”

“I don’t know yet.” The faintly amused expression on Lina’s face had disappeared, replaced by a grim look. “Things are changing, and it depends what happens. I don’t like what happened at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, and there’s this trial too. But if there’s anything I can do about it, he will have everything, Christie. You have my word on it.”

“Thank you.” Christie nodded. The future was a vast unknown, frightening in its uncertainty, but there were a few sure things that Christie could count on.

First, Evan loved her. Second, she loved Aldon. And third, Lina had given her word, and she would look out for all of them.


End file.
